"Are you already so hungry that I look like food to you?" a voice called out. Shrouded in furs, a figure emerged from the brush and slogged toward him. Two others followed farther behind.
Hart lowered his rifle. "I thought you might be a bear."
"Ah, a white man," the Eskimo said. "When they come to hunt, nothing is safe. I hide in Anaktuvuk." He put his arms up over his face in mock fear.
"I'm hauling cargo, not hunting," Hart said sheepishly. He told the Eskimo his name.
"Isaac Alatak," the Eskimo replied. "And I'm told by Mr. Popper you've stopped hauling and started hunting, judging by what he saw from his airplane. Is not one bear enough for you?"
Hart accepted the inevitable ribbing. "More than enough."
The second man caught up to them. "I've heard of dedicated sportsmen, but cracking your plane up to get at a grizzly is a bit much, Hart." It was Popper. "I think you need another hobby."
"Or another career. Thanks for coming to fetch me, Karl."
"Well, I was paid. For a change." He jerked his head toward the third figure.
That other man hung back a few steps and said nothing, preferring to observe the soaked pilot.
"I'm bringing a body to Anaktuvuk," Hart said. "Ramona Umiat. She died of TB." He pointed to the form lying in the mud at his feet. Startled, he saw part of the blanket had unwrapped again and her arm had once more come free. "She's had a rough time, I'm afraid."
The Eskimo squatted down and touched the still form. Then he crossed himself. "What have you done with my sister, white man?"
Hart winced at the relationship. "I'm sorry. I got caught in the storm. Couldn't make the village."
The Eskimo looked mournfully at the battered body. "Foolish day to fly in, white man. Foolish time for such a sacred responsibility. You need to learn caution. Always the white man is in such a hurry."
Hart opened his mouth, then said nothing.
"I don't think Mr. Hart crashed on purpose," the third man said. Hart was surprised. From the tone of his voice it was obvious he was not Eskimo, or American either. He had a German accent. "Perhaps he was prudent enough not to fly your sister into a mountainside. Sprechen sie Deutsch, Hart?"
"Some, from my youth," the pilot replied in German. "I grew up in a German settlement in Montana."
"Yes, I've checked your ancestry," the stranger said, continuing in German.
The reply gave Hart pause. "And you are… German? You come here to climb?" Sometimes krauts came to Alaska for the mountains. They were nuts for mountains.
"An opportunity," the stranger replied. "I'd planned to contact you in Fairbanks but you'd just left. Despite the weather. A decision that seems counter to your reputation."
"Reputation?"
"Antarctica."
There was silence a moment. "The weather was fine when I left," Hart said. "When you fly you have to make decisions."
"I respect that," the stranger said.
Alatak produced a small hatchet and began slashing at the willows. "I'll make a sling for my sister while you practice your German." Popper bent to help but Hart, mystified by the stranger, made no move. He was too numb.
When it became apparent he wasn't going to speak, the German did— this time in English. "My name is Otto Kohl. I'm a German-American trade representative. I've come halfway around the world to speak with you. When Anaktuvuk radioed that your plane was missing I feared I'd wasted my time on a dead man. Mr. Popper, though, convinced me to hire his plane and have a look for you. Lucky for you that I did."
"I would've been all right."
"Perhaps." Kohl looked away down valley. "Could you show me your plane? I'd like to make a complete report."
Hart was taken aback. "A report? You from the government?"
"Not exactly. Is your plane near here?"
Hart looked at Alatak. "Go on," the Eskimo grumbled, knowing it wasn't far. "We'll finish here."
Wordlessly, Hart led the way back through the brush to the bank. The river was rising swiftly and the bar was almost gone. A channel had opened under the fuselage and the crippled Stinson was rocking in the flow. As they watched, it slid a few feet downstream. "I'm going to lose my whole damn cargo."
"Yes," Kohl observed. "Fortune is curious, isn't it?"
The pilot turned to study his companion more closely. He looked near fifty, with a trim mustache, pale, soft skin, and an irritating self-assurance for such wild surroundings. Well, it wasn't his plane that had been lost.
They stood there a moment in silence, rain drumming on their heads.
"Who the hell are you?"
Kohl smiled. "I'm based in Washington but represent the German government." He pointed to the plane, beginning to tilt. "I could report to the Reich that you incautiously flew into bad weather and landed poorly, exhibiting neither courage nor wisdom." He waited for Hart to react, but the pilot said nothing. "Or I could report you have a knack for survival in polar weather conditions, even saving a passenger from a grizzly bear, albeit a dead passenger."
"Why should I care what you report?"
"Let me be blunt," the German replied. "Your misfortune may prove to be our opportunity because it may predispose you to accept what I'm about to offer. You're well aware that my government is controversial. You may be aware it has limited experience in Antarctic exploration: Germany has yet to make any lengthy presence there, unlike the British or Norwegians or you Americans with Admiral Byrd. You're certainly aware that under National Socialism, my country is moving quickly to claim her rightful place as an equal in the rank of nations. You, on the other hand, are in financial difficulty, I suspect. You've just lost your primary possession. You lost some of your reputation as a flier in 1934 and this incident will hardly restore it. Yet I'm here to offer you another chance. To be part of history."
Hart stood watching his plane. As if drawn by a giant unseen hand, it sank toward the center of the channel.
"Why me?"
"Simple. You're an expert at Antarctic flying. You're what we need."
"I was fired in the Antarctic. My boss said I chickened."
"And did you?"
There was a silence.
"I've done some checking," said Kohl. "You were fired for caution. We Germans can be determined, even headstrong, but we know prudence is a virtue as well. In any event you know about Antarctic oils, fuels, clothing, and navigation."
"Wait a minute," Hart said, still absorbing what the German was saying. "I fly my plane into the ground and you still want to hire me?"
Kohl shrugged. "You strike me as a man who accepts the options he has and chooses well. And, frankly, for us your situation is ideal. We want to make clear to the world that our mission is one of peaceful exploration. As an American, a foreigner, your presence will reinforce that." The German eyed him intently. "In your present situation, may I assume politics are a nonissue?"
"I don't follow politics." Hart tried to think. He hadn't made up his mind about the Nazis. Hitler was a dictator, certainly, but he'd put Germany to work. Lindbergh had visited and come away impressed. But Hart knew why Kohl had come all the way to Alaska. Not everyone wanted to work for the Reich. Not everyone had forgotten the Great War. "I'll think about it."
"Certainly. Think all you want, as we hike back to Anaktuvuk. Think tonight as you eat, and then sleep. Think, and ask me any question you care to. And then you must decide because Mr. Popper and I are returning to Fairbanks in the morning. We have room for an employee."
Kohl smiled, but there was little warmth in it.
They went back to where the Eskimo had slung Ramona between willow branches. The German and Hart took one end, Popper and the Eskimo the other. The dog led off. As always the tundra was miserable walking, spongy and ankle-twisting, but the trudge was warming.